Writing: the shoe fit
Jun. 9th, 2005 12:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pipistrellafelixOk. I have no idea where this is going--as usual. I'm kind of tempted to have her run off with the messenger...possibly only because I just watched Sex and the City, which featured kissing-adultery with hot Irish gardeners*. So...comment, critique (well, I know it's terrible, it's a first-draft-late-at-night-got-promted-randomly scene), tell me if you have ideas...
Ta, loves.
Greta and I had planned it out to the minutest detail—everything up until when the plan actually worked. I knew the shoe actually fit Cinderella, everyone did; but Greta and I, in the dark of our room at night, whispered to each other that we had the chance as well. Little Ella was far too meek and wouldn’t bother to fight us, Greta told me with the smug air she always had. “You know what I mean, Anna,” she said, a smile twisting her lips in the faint light from the moon. “That ‘yes, Greta, of course, Greta, whatever you say, Greta.’ She acts like a servant, what does she expect?”
I nodded, more out of habit than agreement. This was a common theme with Greta, and I could never understand if she felt guilty about ordering Ella around or not. She never seemed to show it, except perhaps here, at night. “But she’s destined to marry the prince anyway,” I pointed out. “We both know who that unknown lady was.”
Greta snorted, the only unladylike gesture she allowed herself. “Ella? A queen? Please, Anna. How can a girl who’s taken orders all her life and scrubbed floors and ironed dresses be a queen? The kingdom need someone stronger, someone used to being in charge. Like me. Or you.”
“Well, if you can cram your foot into that shoe, go ahead,” I told her, stifling a yawn.
“No, Anna. You’re going for it.”
“Why me?” I asked, rolling over on my pillow and frowning at my sister. “You’re better at ordering people around.”
“And you’re cuter,” she said, with the confident air she always had. “People will like you better. Plus, you like the Prince. I think he’s a twat.”
“Greta, he isn’t a twat, he’s just naive.”
“See?” she said triumphantly. “You like him. Just get your foot into that shoe, Anna. One shoe, and think what kind of opportunities you’d have…”
* * *
The messenger came the very next day, while Greta and I were just beginning our weekly letters to relatives, and Ella was scrubbing the breakfast dishes. Mother shooed the maid away from the door when the bell rang, and opened it herself, with a blinding smile and a overly welcoming curtsey. “Come in, please,” she said. “Any messenger of the king is always welcome in our home.”
“Morning, madam,” the messenger said. He was a tall man, with golden hair and the blank, efficient manner typical of court messengers. “You must have heard the stories of last week’s ball; I am here to fit the shoe to any of your daughters that attended.”
“Of course!” Mother smiled again and made a wide, sweeping gesture toward us. “Greta, Anna, come forward.”
We both stepped forward and dropped curtseys, murmuring wordless greetings. Greta swept elegantly to a seat and sat down, one foot in front of the other, and her chin in the air. Why on earth did she want me to be queen? She had all the right manners for it.
“Mistress Greta,” the messenger said, kneeling in front of her and sliding her right shoe off. It didn’t take long to realize that the shoe wouldn’t fit, even with a good deal of shoving and a greased shoehorn. “I’m sorry,” the messenger said, and slid Greta’s own shoe back on.
“Thank you,” Greta said imperiously, and stood up.
I moved forward and sat down, rearranging my skirts. The messenger removed my shoe and picked up the crystal one, sliding it over my toes. And it fit.
I don’t mean I could squeeze my foot into it; I mean it fit. Perfectly. The messenger’s hands, cradling my foot, paused. He looked up into my face—which must have looked utterly stunned—and smiled slightly. With that smile, the efficient court demeanour cracked and something brilliant shone through his face. I couldn’t help smiling back. “It fits,” I said, rather idiotically.
“So it does. Then you are to come with me, Princess Anna.”
With those words the giddy feeling that had swept through me at his smile disappeared, to be replaced with panic. I knew very well that I hadn’t been the Prince’s beloved that night. I knew very well that Ella, humming quietly in the kitchen, deserved this chance much more than I did. But the shoe fit—what could I say?
*I wonder what it says that every single Irish song they played during that episode? ...I knew. Yes. Even the one during sex. Oh dear...obviously I need to a) start dancing again or b) get a hot Irish boyfriend. Possibly both.
Incidentally, this packing-up and moving out shit is not exactly fun. I realized as I was putting everything in this room into boxes and bags that this is a first: I have never actually moved entirely out of someplace. I suddenly feel very young and very naive.
Ta, loves.
Greta and I had planned it out to the minutest detail—everything up until when the plan actually worked. I knew the shoe actually fit Cinderella, everyone did; but Greta and I, in the dark of our room at night, whispered to each other that we had the chance as well. Little Ella was far too meek and wouldn’t bother to fight us, Greta told me with the smug air she always had. “You know what I mean, Anna,” she said, a smile twisting her lips in the faint light from the moon. “That ‘yes, Greta, of course, Greta, whatever you say, Greta.’ She acts like a servant, what does she expect?”
I nodded, more out of habit than agreement. This was a common theme with Greta, and I could never understand if she felt guilty about ordering Ella around or not. She never seemed to show it, except perhaps here, at night. “But she’s destined to marry the prince anyway,” I pointed out. “We both know who that unknown lady was.”
Greta snorted, the only unladylike gesture she allowed herself. “Ella? A queen? Please, Anna. How can a girl who’s taken orders all her life and scrubbed floors and ironed dresses be a queen? The kingdom need someone stronger, someone used to being in charge. Like me. Or you.”
“Well, if you can cram your foot into that shoe, go ahead,” I told her, stifling a yawn.
“No, Anna. You’re going for it.”
“Why me?” I asked, rolling over on my pillow and frowning at my sister. “You’re better at ordering people around.”
“And you’re cuter,” she said, with the confident air she always had. “People will like you better. Plus, you like the Prince. I think he’s a twat.”
“Greta, he isn’t a twat, he’s just naive.”
“See?” she said triumphantly. “You like him. Just get your foot into that shoe, Anna. One shoe, and think what kind of opportunities you’d have…”
* * *
The messenger came the very next day, while Greta and I were just beginning our weekly letters to relatives, and Ella was scrubbing the breakfast dishes. Mother shooed the maid away from the door when the bell rang, and opened it herself, with a blinding smile and a overly welcoming curtsey. “Come in, please,” she said. “Any messenger of the king is always welcome in our home.”
“Morning, madam,” the messenger said. He was a tall man, with golden hair and the blank, efficient manner typical of court messengers. “You must have heard the stories of last week’s ball; I am here to fit the shoe to any of your daughters that attended.”
“Of course!” Mother smiled again and made a wide, sweeping gesture toward us. “Greta, Anna, come forward.”
We both stepped forward and dropped curtseys, murmuring wordless greetings. Greta swept elegantly to a seat and sat down, one foot in front of the other, and her chin in the air. Why on earth did she want me to be queen? She had all the right manners for it.
“Mistress Greta,” the messenger said, kneeling in front of her and sliding her right shoe off. It didn’t take long to realize that the shoe wouldn’t fit, even with a good deal of shoving and a greased shoehorn. “I’m sorry,” the messenger said, and slid Greta’s own shoe back on.
“Thank you,” Greta said imperiously, and stood up.
I moved forward and sat down, rearranging my skirts. The messenger removed my shoe and picked up the crystal one, sliding it over my toes. And it fit.
I don’t mean I could squeeze my foot into it; I mean it fit. Perfectly. The messenger’s hands, cradling my foot, paused. He looked up into my face—which must have looked utterly stunned—and smiled slightly. With that smile, the efficient court demeanour cracked and something brilliant shone through his face. I couldn’t help smiling back. “It fits,” I said, rather idiotically.
“So it does. Then you are to come with me, Princess Anna.”
With those words the giddy feeling that had swept through me at his smile disappeared, to be replaced with panic. I knew very well that I hadn’t been the Prince’s beloved that night. I knew very well that Ella, humming quietly in the kitchen, deserved this chance much more than I did. But the shoe fit—what could I say?
*I wonder what it says that every single Irish song they played during that episode? ...I knew. Yes. Even the one during sex. Oh dear...obviously I need to a) start dancing again or b) get a hot Irish boyfriend. Possibly both.
Incidentally, this packing-up and moving out shit is not exactly fun. I realized as I was putting everything in this room into boxes and bags that this is a first: I have never actually moved entirely out of someplace. I suddenly feel very young and very naive.
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no subject
Date: 2005-06-09 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-10 12:01 am (UTC)Thanks!